


Night Creatures

by grandpasauce



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Bottom Astarion, Choking, Drow, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29262876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandpasauce/pseuds/grandpasauce
Summary: Pharaun is insistent that Astarion and him have more in common than the vampire seems to think...TLDR This ain't your usual run of the mill smut... this one has *feelings* in it. And choking. And blood drinking. And basically just two evil aligned characters being weird about their feelings for one another and how I imagine that might play out.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	Night Creatures

**Author's Note:**

> No real smut in the first part, sorry. I had a lot of fun really building up to it for some reason???? Idk these two won't stfu when I write them so I just kept writing more and more and more and... now you get this. 
> 
> There is a vague reference to a dead animal in this part so if that makes you squeamish.............. idk sucks to suck i guess just don't read it. 
> 
> It's, like, really good though so your missing out.

The shallow water laps quietly at Pharaun’s boots, his heels sinking slowly into the soft mud. The night sky is clear tonight, stars twinkling from behind a thin mask of wispy clouds that float by. His gaze has been centered on them for an indecipherable amount of time, entranced by the sight and the moonlight that glimmers over the river’s calm waters.

  
He’s been on the surface before, traveling with his merchant clan. That was business, however, and the sort of dealings he was involved in weren’t the most harmless of transactions. Weapons, toxins, slaves—he’s traded in them all and more. But the life of a drow is hardly ever a dependable one. Even during his lengthiest treks to the surface, Pharaun’s never taken the time to witness what life above ground has to offer.

  
Things as trivial as stars—as the sky—are a wonder to him.

  
He recalls his first excursion with the merchant clan. The hike to the surface was long and treacherous, as are most travels in the Underdark, but nothing quite prepared him for the gaping maw of the open sky.

Veszdrin had mocked Pharaun’s expression of utter consternation.

“Careful,” He had said, “if you stay in place too long, you might just fall into it.”

Pharaun’s face had burned with embarrassment. He tore his gaze from the endless space above him, and refused to acknowledge it thereafter.

His lips curl upward at the memory. Something knots in his chest—a pinch of homesickness. He doesn’t miss the life he left behind in Menzoberranzan, he doesn’t miss the matron mother or her vile daughters.

And he certainly doesn’t miss his wife.

No, but he does miss Veszdrin. He misses the cavern walls and the familiarity of home. And to think he will never be able to return to that life… It lays a strange, weighty sadness over his shoulders.

That sadness quickly becomes anger, however—Pharaun ever true to the ways of his people. He shakes his head and only realizes that his fists are balled tight when he moves to rub his face.

“Oh, good.” A familiar voice drawls from somewhere behind him, “Glad to see you kept me waiting just to brood all by yourself.”

Pharaun throws a glance over his shoulder and rolls his eyes at Astarion’s petulant expression. He must have been standing here long, indeed, to drive Astarion from his bunk in search of him.

“I thought you might have been avoiding me,” Astarion says, feigning heartache as he rounds to Pharaun’s side.

The drow keeps his gaze fixated on the night sky, “Don’t mistake our involvement for anything more than what it is. I’m not about to perform for you every night like clockwork, Astarion.”

“Oh, feeling touchy, are we?” Astarion raises a brow in jest, though there’s an edge to his voice that betrays his nonchalance. “I just like to be well informed, darling. If you’d like, I can leave you to your… lamenting.”

Astarion pats Pharaun’s back reassuringly, “You won’t hear a peep from me for the rest of the night.”

Pharaun bristles at the vampire’s arrogance. Astarion expects him to apologize, to melt under his apparent indifference and urge him to stay.

It’s infuriating.

“Yes, leave me be.” Pharaun snaps, shooting a glance toward the other man for only a beat before looking back at nothing.

“Fine,” Astarion drones. He shrugs and begins turning away, “Have it your way.”

Pharaun flexes his jaw in thought. With every passing second a part of him dreads the utter stillness around him, wishes almost immediately that he didn’t have to be alone. He was just sulking over the recollection of past comrades. Why must he insist on remaining solitary even now?

It takes Astarion only a handful of steps before Pharaun turns toward him fully and utters his name, beckoning, “Astarion, wait.”

The vampire, for his part, looks remarkably smug when he regards the other man. His smirk stretches to the furthest reaches of his pale face, and Pharaun sighs as he considers taking back his resignation.

But he doesn’t, because Astarion’s sweeping gesture of satisfaction actually manages to make him grin.

Barely.

“I knew you’d come around,” Astarion says. He makes his way back to the drow’s side, following the man’s gaze up toward the stars.

“So,” He says casually, “What has you so easily irked?”

Pharaun stares down at his feet. There’s a stretch of time where nothing disturbs their companionable silence but the tranquil sounds of the water washing ashore. He’s rather surprised Astarion allows him time to think without speaking a word.

“Do you ever… miss it? Life before the tadpole?”

Astarion bursts into a bitter cackle that makes Phauran jump. The vampire clamps his hand down on Pharaun’s shoulder, “Miss it?”

Astarion’s expression becomes suddenly grave. “The only part of me that desires to return to Cazador’s crypt, only wishes to do so that I might lay waste to it and never return.”

Astarion looks away, “Not that I didn’t enjoy all the rats and perpetual torture. I guess I just… grew out of it.”

“Yes,” Pharaun nods, “But it was familiar, was it not? Even the maltreatment… eventually it becomes so normal you don’t know what to do with yourself once it ceases.”

“I was Cazador’s sire for 200 hundred years—take or leave a few. Perhaps Menzoberranzan had it’s occasional charms…” Astarion looks Pharaun squarely in the eye, his voice hardening, “But until you live as I have, don’t presume that we have anything in common.”

Pharaun turns toward him, head shaking in disbelief. “You say that as if we don’t.

“Yes, I’m sure life as a noble’s patron was such a hardship for you.” Astarion’s nostrils flare.

“Surely you must see the obvious affinities we share, Astarion.”

“I see nothing!” Astarion roars. “You haven’t been carved into like a slab of stone, you don’t know what it is to feel so starved that even the sight of a decaying corpse makes your mouth water!”

Astarion regards Pharaun like a predator stalking its prey—shoulders hunched, teeth bared, red eyes aflame.

Pharaun realizes he’s overstepped some line, and perhaps he should feel culpable, but all he feels is anger and betrayal.

So this is what he gets for trying to relate to the one companion he thought might understand.

The vampire throws his hands into the air, turning away. “This was a mistake.”

Before Pharaun can even make sense of his own thoughts, Astarion has slinked into the darkness.

-

He finds Astarion a little later into the night, sitting blank-faced against a rock with an exsanguinated fox lying a few feet from where he’s settled. The poor thing was obviously on the receiving end of a particularly incensed vampire; though the pairing of puncture wounds is expected, the unsettling disfigurement and bloody carnage left over was clearly unnecessary. Even stranger, Astarion says nothing and refuses to even regard Pharaun as the drow saunters over and seats himself down next to him.

Pharaun stares at the animal, waiting. When it seems the vampire is unlikely to say anything at all, Pharaun looks at him expectantly. There’s a trickle of half-dried blood still painted on the corner of Astarion’s mouth, and there’s something strangely captivating about the contrast of crimson against his bone-white skin.

Pharaun’s not sorry—he’s not.

Nor does he miss the quaint anticipation of sharing Astarion’s company once the rest of their companions have nodded off.

He simply… found himself particularly antsy after their quarrel, so he went on a stroll. That he happened upon the elf in question is only a coincidence.

Another long stretch of silence, and then, “I do know.”

Astarion’s ears perk at Pharaun’s words, though he remains silent.

“I know what it’s like to be starved… to be tortured and cut and disgraced. And I know what it’s like to feel alone in the daylight, unaccustomed to living every moment with a band of strangers whose lives have been so dissimilar to your own.”

And he wonders if Astarion understands what he is saying. Not just the words themselves, but the implication behind them. _This world can feel so alien, but when it’s just you and I it somehow doesn’t seem so daunting._

Astarion’s soft sigh pulls him from his thoughts, and he watches as the vampire lulls his head against the rock behind them and closes his eyes.

“Why did you have to ruin the moment back there?” Astarion’s tone is facetious, but his voice raises barely above a whisper. He wrings his hands together absently and Pharaun notices the mess of dried blood on his palms.

Wordlessly, he grabs Astarion’s wrist with gentle insistence. There’s a beat where he thinks he might refuse his gesture, but the elf quickly relents. He rests Astarion’s hand on his lap, pulling a waterskin and loose handkerchief from his side. Astarion keeps his eyes closed even as Pharaun begins damping the cloth and sweeping tender strokes over his hands, wine-colored stains giving way to delicate pale skin.

Pharaun takes care to wipe the blood from every crevice, every wrinkle, every space between Astarion’s fingers. He delicately eases the elf’s palm upwards, repeating his diligence to the other side. It’s only when he decides that the blood beneath Astarion’s nails will take more than a damp handkerchief that he relinquishes his hand with a soft kiss, and moves to clean the other one.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to make up for something,” Astarion says quietly.

“Good thing you know better, then,” Pharaun mutters. “You looked pitiful sitting here alone, blood-spattered. I thought I’d help you regain some semblance of decency.”

His words are ice but his inflection sounds light. Pharaun folds the cloth over to a clean side and continues his ministrations.

Astarion holds a hand to his collarbone, “A drow? Caring about the plight of the unfortunate? Unheard of.”

“Not the unfortunate,” The corner of Pharaun’s mouth curls. “Just one sad vampire spawn.”

“How precious,” Astarion purrs. “Now hurry and get this blood off me—I’ve a sudden taste for something else tonight.”

The drow finishes cleaning Astarion’s remaining hand, sending it off with a kiss similar to the last one. The vampire doesn’t waste a moment moving in toward Pharaun, but just as their lips are about to meet, the man clamps an obsidian hand over Astarion’s jaw.

He stops in confusion, “Pardon?”

Pharaun says nothing, only lifts the lone patch of clean cloth to the side of Astarion’s mouth and sweeps the blood away, hand still holding his head steady. However tempting the light pink of Astarion’s lips might be, he makes, instead, to kiss the corner he’d just cleaned. Pharaun is pleased by the anticipation in Astarion’s eyes as he pulls back slightly, keeping his face just inches from the other man’s.

And he is doubly pleased at the rare sight of shock written on Astarion’s face when he stands, pulling away completely from the vampire’s personal space.

“Need a hand?” Pharaun offers, arm extended toward the man on the ground.

“You tease, you.” Astarion shakes his head, grinning. “What are you playing at, my dear?”

Pharaun shrugs, “Nothing. I just find sex in the presence of a rotting carcass a bit beneath me.”

Astarion regards said rotting carcass as if he’d entirely forgotten it was there, “I didn’t realize you had such crippling performance anxiety. It’s dead, darling, don’t mind it.”

Pharaun gives up on expecting Astarion to present his hand willingly, so he pulls the elf to his feet with enough force that they almost collide. With their faces just a breath away from one another, the drow alternates between bearing into Astarion’s eyes and staring at his lips.

“You’re infuriating,” Pharaun chastises.

Hands coming up to cradle Astarion’s head, he pulls him against the length of his body and presses a forceful kiss to the vampire’s lips. The elf makes a dainty, surprised noise against Pharaun’s mouth that blooms an unfamiliar flutter within his chest—something like excitement, something like thrill and yearning.

It feels amazing.

He presses into Astarion’s mouth further, tasting the lingering copper of Astarion’s kill. It should sway him—it should disgust him—but just as quickly as the thought appears, it is gone as Astarion digs his fingers into the leathers of Pharaun’s back. They grab desperately at one another, pulling away only to delve back in.

The feel of Astarion’s lips against him is a familiar one, and yet still so foreign. He’s not used to lovers with fangs, lovers who leave fine cuts in the wake of their gentle nipping. He’s never understood how pain can bring pleasure until now, until Astarion.

The vampire wraps an arm around the back of Pharaun’s neck, smirking breathlessly against his lips, “Well… you showed me.”

Pharaun kisses him quickly, softly, “Let’s get back to camp.”

**Author's Note:**

> Send me anon hate at grandpasauce.tumblr.com


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